Jean Kwok - Girl in Translation

Leaning against the humming soda machine, I could see Matt was the leader of the factory kids. They seemed to range in age from about four to teens. To save money, Ma made many of my clothes herself, even though she couldn’t do it very well, so I had on a home-sewn shirt while the other kids were wearing cool T-shirts with English sayings like “Remember to Vote.” They interspersed their Chinese with English to show off how Americanized they were and everyone apparently knew I was fresh off the boat. There was some whispering when they found out Dog Flea Mama was my aunt, but Matt seemed to have taken me under his wing and no one dared tease me. Despite the hard work, I was relieved to be among Chinese kids again.

After ten minutes, though, everyone started wandering back to the work they knew awaited them if they ever wanted to leave. I returned to Ma and resumed work but I was exhausted. I’d been there for three hours. I kept waiting for Ma to say it was time to go home. Instead, she pulled out a container of rice cooked with carrots and a bit of ham: we would have dinner at the finisher’s table. I couldn’t complain. She’d been there much longer than I had. We ate standing up and as fast as we could so we could get enough work done to stay on schedule. That first night, we left at nine o’clock. Later, I discovered that this was considered early.

The next morning, I stayed in the tiny bathroom a long time.

“Kim,” Ma said. “We’ll be late for school.”

I reluctantly opened the door, clutching my thin towel. “I don’t feel well.”

She looked concerned and placed her hand on my forehead. “What is it?”

“I have a stomachache,” I said. “I think I should stay home today.”

Ma studied me, then smiled. “Silly girl, why are you talking the big words?” She was asking why I was lying. “You have to go to school.” Ma believed in the absolute sanctity of education.

“I can’t,” I said. My eyes started tearing up again, even though I tried to hide it by rubbing my face with the towel.

“Are the other children mean to you?” she asked kindly.

“It’s not the kids,” I said. I stared at the splintered threshold of the bathroom. “It’s the teacher.”

Now she looked skeptical. Teachers are highly respected in Hong Kong. “What are you talking about?”

I told her the whole story, the way Mr. Bogart had corrected my accent yesterday, the way he’d been angry at the things I hadn’t understood, that he’d thought I’d been cheating and given me a zero. I couldn’t stop them now, I let the tears brim over but kept myself from breaking into full sobs.

When I was finished, Ma was silent. She had to work her mouth a moment before she was able to speak. Then she said haltingly, “Maybe I could talk to him and tell him what a good student you are.”

For a moment, my heart caught flight but then I pictured Ma talking to Mr. Bogart with the few English words she knew. It would only make him despise me more. “No, Ma, I will try harder.”

“I am sure that if you work the way you always do, he will give you another chance.” She reached out and pulled me to her. She laid her cheek against the top of my head.

I was surprised and grateful Ma hadn’t automatically taken the teacher’s side against me. Leaning against her, I closed my eyes and pretended for just a moment that everything would be all right.

After my talk with Ma about Mr. Bogart, I did what any sensible kid would: I started playing hooky. Ma had no choice but to leave me to walk to school alone because she had to get to the factory as early as possible in order to have any hope of finishing our work on time. She couldn’t afford the luxury of escorting me again.

“Are you sure you know the way?” Ma asked. “Do you have your token for the subway after school?”

Ma was afraid to leave me alone but now that I’d done it before, the route to school was actually simple. The distance was long but it required few turns. We arrived at her subway station first. Ma hesitated at the entrance, but I nodded as confidently as I could, then headed off in the direction of the school. As soon as she was out of sight, I ducked around the corner and circled home.

Despite the cold, I was sweating. What if I ran into Mr. Bogart or one of the kids from my class recognized me? I’d never done anything similar before. Like any good Chinese girl, I’d always followed the rules and been glad to be praised by the teachers. But the only alternative was going into Mr. Bogart’s classroom again. I was learning about desperation.

It was with a sick feeling that I pulled open the heavy door to our building and entered into that dark mouth. I huddled in the dirty living room, still in my jacket, with the weak sun’s rays clogged in the murky windows. I hadn’t ever really been alone before. I felt a bit safer sitting in the center of the mattress where I could at least see any roaches coming before they got to me. Anything could materialize in the emptiness beyond the shadowy doorway. When the garbage bags covering the windows in the kitchen rustled, I thought about how easy it would be for a burglar to rip off the tape and step inside. I would jump out of the window on the street side if someone broke in. If I hung from the windowsill by my fingers before dropping, I would probably live. That became my solution for all the contingencies that flashed across my mind: if the stove caught on fire, if a ghost appeared in the bathroom, if a rat attacked, if Ma walked through the door looking for something she’d forgotten.

The apartment air felt damp and raw. It was November of what would turn out to be one of the most bitter winters in New York ’s history. To keep myself from becoming too chilled and scared, I flicked on the small television. Its busy chatter brought me into the world of dishes and lemon-scented sprays. There were a lot of shows about hospitals: doctors kissing nurses, nurses kissing patients; there were films about cowboys and Indians; shows with people sitting in squares with flashing lights. In particular, the commercials mystified me: “Raise your arms to be sure,” the voice boomed, showing men and women thrusting their arms into the air. Why should you do this? Was it something to do with the Liberty Goddess?

“Triple your vocabulary in thirty days,” the authoritative male voice promised. “Impess your friends. Show your boss who’s boss.” I sat up straighter. I imagined myself going back to class, using words even Mr. Bogart didn’t know. Then came a commercial for alphabet soup, the concept of which fascinated me, as all things in letter form did. I realized it was almost lunchtime and I was hungry.

I braved the darkened kitchen to peek into the small refrigerator. Ma wasn’t used to having one and it was mostly empty. I found only a few small pieces of leftover chicken, the bones protruding from under the fatty skin, some yellowing vegetables with cold rice, and a shallow container of oyster sauce. I didn’t dare touch anything. I’d been taught that everything had to be thoroughly heated. The kids in a commercial I’d just seen were eating cheese sandwiches with apples and milk, but there was no bread here, let alone anything to put on it. I was afraid even to get a glass of water by myself; back home, I’d gotten such bad diarrhea from drinking unboiled tap water that I’d almost died. Ma had always made a warm snack for me when we came home from school together: steamed mackerel in black beans, roasted pork skins, winter melon soup, fried rice with scallions.

My stomach rumbled as I continued to watch TV. Gleaming toy kitchens, bouncing balls large enough for kids to sit on, kids eating cookies in tree houses. There was a commercial with a family at a long table laden with food. I longed for the room in the background of that table. It was so clean there you could have lain down on the floor. In our apartment, I didn’t dare to touch much. Even after our rigorous cleaning, everything seemed shrouded with the dust of dead insects and mice. I indulged in one of my favorite fantasies, that Pa had stayed alive. If he were here, maybe we wouldn’t have had to work at the factory at all. Maybe he’d have been able to get a regular job and help us build up a life like those people on TV.